Alone's All You Left Behind
by TheOtherHalfBloodPrince
Summary: In that moment, John remembered why he didn't grow close to anyone, and he understood why Sherlock enjoyed his isolation. When you're alone, you're safe. No one can hurt you if you don't let them in. (post Reichenbach -John dealing with Sherlock's death -possible Johnlock)
1. 1: Don't Be Dead

_Oh, God. No. No, God, please no. _This wasn't supposed to happen. It can't end like this. It just can't. Why is the universe so cruel? John Watson takes off sprinting across the street, ignoring the flow of traffic.

Just mere meters away, his best friend is lying on the ground, surrounded by his own blood. John keeps running, pushing through the crowd that has accumulated on the sidewalk below St. Bart's.

John could feel the strangers holding him back, keeping him away from Sherlock. He tried to force his way through the wall they have created, but it was no use –they were just too strong for John to break through.

But when the wall finally comes crashing down, it took a part of John with it. Suddenly, he longed for the protection. He didn't want to see what was in front of him. John wanted that innocence back. There was nothing about the fall he could imagine that was worse than what was actually there.

John's knees became weak, unable to hold his weight, letting him collapse onto the pavement. "No, no, God, no." That was all he could manage to say, mostly because that was all he was thinking. His best friend in the whole world was laying in front of the doctor, all the life drained from his once brilliant eyes.

And there was nothing John could do to make it stop.

He couldn't bear to look anymore. Sherlock couldn't be dead. He _couldn't _be. This wasn't fair. John felt a gaping hole forming inside of him, growing larger and larger, leaving nothing but sadness and pain behind.

After what seemed to be an eternity, John found himself just mere inches away from the detective. It was much different up close. It was too real for John to handle.

The wail of sirens cut through the crisp, frigid air as the ambulances drew nearer and nearer. John knew he was being moved away, but he couldn't leave Sherlock.

"Please," the doctor fought his way through the barricade, determined to save Sherlock. He had to. John _needed _to save him. "Please, he's my friend."

_He's my friend._

This realization was new to John. While his reputation depicted him as an amiable person, he was never close with anyone –which was undoubtedly a habit he acquired during his time in the military. John learned not to get too attached to anyone –they might be gone the next morning.

But Sherlock was different. Sherlock was someone John could open up to, someone he knew wouldn't judge him –with the exception of a snide remark here and there. Sherlock was someone John could trust. John never felt that he was in danger when he was with the detective –not even with a gun to his head, because he knew Sherlock wouldn't hurt him.

Now, however, there was no one there. John's fingers found Sherlock's wrist –they found his skin cold to the touch. There was nothing there. That was when it really sunk in, the knowledge that Sherlock wasn't coming back this time. John would come home to an empty flat.

In that moment, John remembered why he didn't grow close to anyone, and he understood why Sherlock enjoyed his isolation. When you're alone, you're safe.

No one can hurt you if you don't let them in.

John was so absorbed in the events unfolding right before his eyes that he didn't even notice the paramedics until they were right on top of him. John couldn't leave Sherlock. He refused to leave the detective's side, but his efforts did nothing. John was pulled back, and Sherlock was taken away. He was truly gone, now.

Slowly, the crowd dispersed, but John remained on the sidewalk, still on his knees, tears rolling down his cheeks. All of it came back to him, all the cases, all the experiments. The recollections of the times John mocked the detective's lack of sentiment –or rather, the sheer refusal of it. They seemed logical at the time –after all, emotion is a part of life. But John knew why Sherlock hated it so much.

Sentiment hurt, and emotional wounds don't heal.

**Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I should have the next one up soon. Please leave me a review with your thoughts!**


	2. 2: Pieces of Broken Memories

"_It's got flaps –ear flaps. It's an ear hat, John!" Sherlock complains, turning over the deerstalker hat in his hands to examine the hat. How can anyone be expected to wear this? Frankly, Sherlock sees no purpose in such an article of clothing._

_With a heavy sigh at the mere thought of wearing this any time soon –or any time at all, for that matter- Sherlock tosses the hat to John, who catches it with ease._

John Watson stood motionless in 221B, the hat clutched in his fingers. His eyes were glued to the object in his hands, as if that was enough to make everything okay again. Nothing would ever be okay again, John was certain.

Things like this happened often. John would come across something of Sherlock's, and it would send him spiraling into the seemingly endless memories he had of his late flatmate. John was well-aware that doing this would not help him, but that didn't stop him. In fact, it might have only made John more intent on combing the flat for his detective's possessions.

Maybe one day, the flashes of broken recollections would become more than memories. Maybe one day, John would wake up and discover that this whole twisted mess was nothing more than a nightmare –a horrible, cruel nightmare.

John was tired of living like this. How could anyone live with the horrible mass of depression weighing them down? Why did this have to happen?

John had his suspicions –why wouldn't he? Sherlock's death was so out of character that any rational person with half their wits would question it. The denial of intelligence from a man who went to extreme –some would even say ridiculous- lengths to prove his cleverness was especially odd.

There has to be something John wasn't seeing. Sherlock wouldn't do this, he _wouldn't_. It wasn't like him at all. Why was John the only one to notice?

John sets the hat down on the chair and moves on to the mantle. He did this sometimes, searching the flat for Sherlock's things. It didn't help John move on, but he was never going to move on, so he really had nothing to lose.

Inside a small ceramic vase, John recovers a box of cigarettes that are so old that the cardboard packing has begun to fall apart. These must have once been part of Sherlock's emergency stash.

Sherlock rarely ever smoked –only when the difficulty of a case exceeded the need for nicotine patches. In fact, John had only seen the detective smoking three or four times, but the action seemed to come so naturally to the detective, as if it was second nature.

The ticking of the clock hanging on the wall slices through the heavy air, penetrating John's thoughts with its noise. Each tick takes the doctor back.

_Tick. _John finds that he is no longer alone in the flat; the familiar face of the detective has joined him, his slender figure highlighted by the rays of sunlight peeking through the clouds. It all seems so real that for one fleeting moment, John believes this cruel dream has ended.

_Tick. _Sherlock turns to face the doctor, and John's surreal hallucination shatters as soon as he notices the crimson stain on the side of Sherlock's head. A puzzled expression forms on the detective's features. "What's wrong, John?"

"No. No, this can't be happening," John rubs his eyes, hoping the image will disappear. It doesn't. "You're not real."

"Of course I am," comes the incredulous reply from Sherlock.

_Tick. _The scene changes, and John finds himself back outside the hospital, the consulting detective's body at his feet.

"I'm imagining this. This isn't real," John repeats over and over again, hoping that it will make the visions go away. He closes his eyes, letting his head fall to his hands.

Miraculously, John is back in 221B again –he is sitting on the floor, knees brought up to his chest. Meanwhile, the damned clock is still ticking.

It is still ticking when John's fingers wrap around its plastic casing as he snatches it off the wall. It ticks until John hurls it against the wall, smashing it to pieces.

"Are you alright, dear?" Mrs. Hudson appears at the doorway, concern filling her eyes as she takes in the scene before her.

"I'm fine!" John snaps, a little too harshly than he meant for it to be. "Sorry… I'm fine, thanks."

Both John and Mrs. Hudson know it's not true, but the landlady eventually returns to her flat, leaving John alone.

John is not fine. He will never be fine. It's completely mental to think that Sherlock's death can affect him this greatly –maybe it can at first, but not years later. John is supposed to have moved on, not forgotten the event, but it shouldn't be allowed to run his life.

Memories of the detective surround John. Even the small things –such as the lack of severed body parts in the refrigerator, or how empty the atmosphere is without being filled with the ballad of the violin.

"_I'd be lost without my blogger."_

John never realized how lost he would be without his detective.

**Thanks for reading! I hope you like this chapter. Please leave me a review with your thoughts!**


	3. 3: Say Something

The cold wind blows through the trees, carrying with it a sound as hollow and listless as John's world –what's left of it anyway. It fell with Sherlock that day, leaving John a broken shell of his former self. He used to smile, and laugh, but such joy hasn't shown its face in ages.

The wait for the return of the detective has no end in sight, and none appear to be arriving any time soon. When will John grow tired of waiting? No one can wait forever.

But John has been waiting, and he knows he will wait forever. Because there are some people who are worth the wait.

It's not the wait that bothers the detective; it's the damned silence that never fails to crumble his supposedly sound resolve into dust. Sherlock can't be dead, but what's left of John's hope is fading fast.

Sherlock would have let John know. There would have been a sign –where is his sign? Sherlock has never been this quiet.

John's eyes locked with those of his reflection in the smooth marble of the grave resting before the doctor. The grey tint the black stone added to John's reflection adds a new weariness to his features, a weariness that has been a part of John for a while now.

At first, the doctor did everything in his power to occupy himself, mostly with monotonous tasks that only grew duller with each passing moment. Though, as time went on, John succumbed to his sadness –after all, it was always there; what's the point of hiding it? John learned the hard way that these things have a way of coming back.

John tried to lock the sadness away. He buried it so deep inside himself that it didn't resurface again; it began inflicting its damage from the inside.

Maybe if John waits long enough, he will get his sign, and if there's somewhere where John is most likely to get his sign, Sherlock's grave has to be it.

But there is nothing, nothing but the faint sound of the wind rustling through the leaves. Why is it so quiet?

"Say something," John says, but the words catch in his throat, adding the sound of desperation as it turns his statement into a hoarse whisper.

Silence.

"Say something!" John says, the words now flowing more forcefully from his lips, a hint of anger added to them. Hidden deep beneath the anger, John can hear the desolation in his voice, and that scares him. John doesn't want to be this desperate.

Because that means John is giving up.

John can't give up on Sherlock. Sherlock never gave up on him, but then again, John didn't jump off a building and abandon the detective.

"I'm so sorry," John says through the veil of his emotions. "I should have done something.

John can feel the cool tears sliding down his face as his fingers run along the engraving on the stone. "Damn you," his voice falls as the only answer he receives to his pleas is the silence.

John can't go on like this. He can no longer live in the silence as desolation anymore. John never realized how much he needed Sherlock to come back until now.

The soldier hadn't known how truly dependent on Sherlock he was. John's entire life revolved around the man. John will even go so far as to say the detective saved his life. He certainly showed John something he hadn't seen in far too long: friendship. The cases he and Sherlock solved filled the time John would have otherwise spent focusing on darker things –most likely his time Afghanistan.

But John has to face the cold hard truth –much to his reluctance- that no one can wait forever.

**Thanks for reading! I hope you like the story so far. This chapter is inspired by this post (**** post/71624463348/say-something-im-giving-up-on-you-ill-be-the**). Please leave me a review with your thoughts and comments! And be sure to check out my newest Sherlock story: _Words Are Knives_. 


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